Ceaseless
by carlisletakescharge
Summary: Drugs. A train crash. Betrayal. Mistake. A plane ride that ended in misfortune. Alfred F. Jones has gone through many perils, but none so scarring as the fight for survival, on the brink of living and dying. He has to survive... he has to survive for them... Rated M for minor gore, violence, mentioned sexual themes, self-harm, abuse, suicidal tendencies, cursing
1. Prologue

Many people say that dying is like falling asleep or lying down to rest, the only difference being that you don't get back up. Maybe they theorize a sinking sensation or something like floating away in a gently flowing river, their body washing up on the shores the property of any deity they might believe in.

Alfred, before any harrowing or destructive experience that the current small child and colony was doomed to have later in life (or in Alfred's case, only a few weeks of innocence before his mind was taken over by thoughts of danger and fears, a paranoid sense that he kept to this current day), had thought that it would be rather like a ride on Arthur's shoulders- free and only chained by the feelings and people down below. Of all the theories Alfred had heard besides the ones shared to him by the others, his childhood fantasy was by far the most accurate, as if irony was trying to hit him in the face at full speed.

Usually, the experience was not unlike riding a rollercoaster- your gut seemed to contort inside you uncomfortably, and for Alfred, an irrational and looming fear would set in and cloud your brain. He knew that every single time he;d died, the man had cried every one of them. Of pain, fear for himself, fear for others… the list of reasons and explanations was long, but nowhere near the number of times he'd felt the sensation and had slipped away.

The ride was easier when you had less regrets. During his colony days, his memory of them was fuzzy at best- maybe a moment here and there, a feeling, an image… that was it. But even during the revolution, his memory was sharper. He remembered being burned. He remembered being shot. He remembered the moment he'd felt his vision going black. Ever since the late 1700's, his recollection was razor-sharp. Even twinge of pain, every tear, every bystander…

And it was painful. So, so painful. He'd replay every regret he'd had, his head spinning, until finally he blacked out.

But… this was something he'd never experienced before. He'd drowned, been shot in the heart, overdosed… but when he woke up pinned under an airplane wing with Matthew and Francis on either side of him, trying to lift it off of him, he felt different. There wasn't one regret he could think of. Actually… he couldn't think of anything. What was going on..?

A bring light. He saw a bright light. What..? "...M-Matt…" he manage, his eyes half-lidded.

"A-Alfred-!"

But he was already traveling beyond where they could reach.

 **Chapters _will_ be longer, but this is just the prologue. Please follow, favorite, and review!**

 **-Pani**


	2. Chapter 1

**Hah, yeah, this took way longer than was necessary. I needed to update, I'm sorry, I'll try to make updates more frequent. My life went to shit, then basketball started… then my life went to shit again. Sorry. There's some FrUK and probably hinted PruCan if you squint real hard.**

 **If Matthew had been told** about this whole ordeal before it actually happened, the man would've been majorly surprised. Being a 400-something year-old immortal, that was particularly hard to do. But it was certainly true, as he'd later said.

It had started out as normally as it possibly could. Matthew, Francis, Arthur, and Alfred were all on a plane to New York, intending to stay at Alfred's house for the Christmas holiday. The other two who were along were Gilbert and Andersen… who probably got kicked off their planes or ditched by their siblings. Andersen said he'd just board a plane there to Norway, where the Nordics were celebrating their own (which was definitely not going to be 'Denmark-free') Christmas. Gilbert decided to stay with 'mein Francis to make sure he gets it, if you know what I'm saying.'

Gilbert had a black eye now, and the twins weren't sure if it was Francis's doing, or Arthur's.

They'd boarded a private plane in Kyoto, Japan, and were going to arrive in California by late morning. From there they'd go to Atlanta, followed by (finally) New York.

Arthur was the most organized out of the four. He'd gotten everything ready weeks before, and hadn't forgotten anything. The only problem was, when he opened his bag, he'd found (to his astonishment and displeasure) his little brother Peter. How the boy had survived without Arthur finding him, no one knew, but he had to buy all new clothes, indignantly pointing out that the only thing seemingly left intact was a couple shirts, a single pair of trousers, his underwear, and some toiletries. The rest agreed that Arthur was a drama queen.

Matthew and Francis followed, slightly disheveled and a bit underprepared, but overall in good shape. Francis had forgotten some paperwork, and Matthew had left his pet bear at home, but both were mailed back to them the day before they left Kyoto, thankfully.

Last was Alfred, who had too little to survive for only _one_ night in Kyoto, let alone the five they'd stayed. He'd had to borrow some of Matthew's extra clothing (who was perfectly prepared for his brother forgetting anything and everything). But at least Alfred had packed, unlike last time. The only thing he'd packed was some food and his work.

In their prestigious private plane, things were a complete disaster. Food wrappers were thrown on the ground (Peter, Alfred and Kumajiro), sudoku puzzles scattered on the seats (Francis and Arthur), and a couple of beer bottles sat in the corner - Gilbert, Andersen, and surprisingly Matthew. Thankfully, none of the three were drunk.

At this point, though, things had settled down. Francis had fallen asleep leaning against the wall of the plane and looking out to the window, while Arthur had his back lodged into Francis's side and was using him as a backrest, filling out a crossword puzzle while Peter snuggled into Arthur's side, sleeping soundly. Gilbert was in the corner, singing some German song while sipping beer, and Andersen had his head in a book, resting against Gilbert lazily. Arthur had introduced him to _Harry Potter_.

Lastly, Matthew laid back in a seat, his head resting on Kumajiro. Alfred's head was in Matthew's lap, and he was sprawled across three seats. Every once in a while, Matthew's hand would start to play with Alfred's hair absentmindedly.

They hadn't had peace like this in a while. Usually it was fighting, fighting, and more fighting, but today seemed to be calmer. Something was off. And all of them knew it.

The woman who was supposed to be their attendant ('Julie') walked in, smiling that artificial-looking smile. "Thank you for being so patient, gentlemen, but we're experiencing a little delay."

There was a collective groan throughout the plane, and Arthur glanced at her scaldingly. Peter had adjusted himself to lay on Arthur's chest but was now stirring quietly, rubbing his eyes and struggling to wake up.

Matthew smiled, "thank you, ma'am." he mumbled, his hand running through Alfred's hair, "we'll have to be a bit late to the meeting, Arthur, it's fine."

Arthur nodded curtly, though the look in his eyes portrayed his disgruntlement. He'd been riding this plane for too long, and God he hated sleeping on planes… he got to uncomfortable the next day. But… Francis was so warm… he cleared his throat and adjusted himself, glaring down at the ground. "That will be fine…" he said quietly, a disgruntled sigh escaping him.

"Mnh…?" Alfred struggled to open his eyes just as Julie walked back into the front of the plane. "Hey, what's going on?" he asked, a yawn interrupting the length of his sentence.

Matthew smiled weakly, "they're experiencing difficulties… we'll be a bit late." he said quietly, watching his brother's reaction.

Alfred moaned in complaint, closing his eyes again, "what time are we getting in, then?" he demanded, raising an eyebrow and watching his brother's careful movements. "D'you know?"

The younger of the two looked surprised, and he slowly shook his head. "W-Was I supposed to ask?"

THe American groaned loudly, running a hand through his hair with exasperation. "Mattie… Mattie you're _always_ s'posed to ask!"

Arthur sighed, "Alfred, it's not the end of the world… besides, I do suppose it'd be nice to just… spend time together…"

Andersen and Gilbert laughed from the corner. Arthur sent them scalding looks.

"Oh, that's rich!"

" _Nice_ to spend _time_ together, oh, good one England!"

He glared at them yet again and crossed his arms, careful not to wake Peter or Francis up. If he'd been questioned about this, he would have said that the two were more easy to handle when they were asleep. It might have been partly that, but it was mainly that they both looked cute while sleeping, and Arthur needed blackmail pictures.

"So anyways, anyone besides America got any food they'd lend me?" Gilbert asked, extending a hand around Andersen to reach out to the others pleadingly.

"Hey!" Alfred objected, sitting up halfway, "what's so wrong with _my_ food?" he demanded, his hair falling into his face haphazardly. He gave Gilbert an offended expression, turning his head to the side.

"It's all greasy, and fatty, and just gross. I need to stay alive, for once! I might have kept my age, but I could die at the simple drop of the hat, kid, and I'm not taking the risk of diabetes!"

Everyone stared at Gilbert sympathetically, the noise in the cabin dying down almost immediately except for the whir of the engine. Gilbert grinned awkwardly and didn't meet their eyes, until he looked right at Matthew's worrying gaze and gave in, sighing and shaking his head. "You're not allowed to worry for little old me. I'm a Prussian!" he stated proudly, tapping his chest with vigour. He stood up, much to the protest of Andersen, and grinned, pointing at his chest again as if demanding them to wipe the remorseful expressions off their sorry faces.

Alfred chuckled quietly, breaking the silence. "Hey, dude, my food isn't _that_ bad! I'm trying to stay healthy, you guys wait a couple years and I'll be as fit as a fiddle!"

The nations looked among each other uncertainly, fully believing that Alfred would not only fail at that promise, but also gain tremendous weight and look like a hot air balloon in not just the few years, but by next July.

"What? You guys don't believe me?" he demanded, putting his hands up in the air with a flourish worthy of a baton twirler. "C'mon, not one of y'all?"

Arthur sighed, "Alfred, do kindly shut up." he snapped, running a hand through his thick blond hair. He didn't seem to care either way, but on the inside he was dying laughing over the others' antics. "It's not a big deal, anyways. We're about to get home, and-"

A violent shudder interrupted his proclamation, and Francis slammed his head on the plane wall, making him groan and immediately come to his senses. Peter, on the other hand, someone who'd never really been prone to waking up at ungodly hours to someone trying to attack him, only fell to the floor and gasped in pain, grumbling and hissing indignantly.

Arthur shot to his feet, avoiding Peter's various limbs with the utmost precision. "...what the hell is going on?" he demanded, starting to walk towards the cockpit.

Normally, it would have been passed off as normal complications. But all of them… _felt_ it. Something bad was going to happen, and the moment the plane had jolted, everyone had become hypersensitive. They were on their toes, in defensive mode.

Alfred, who had jumped up even faster than the Brit, stopped him by grabbing his arm. "Iggy, we don't know who's in there. We can't risk just going in there."

"Nonsense, Alfred, there's-"

"STAY PUT!" Alfred suddenly shrieked, silencing him and everyone else with his startling volume. Arthur slowly pulled his arm out of Alfred's grip, resting a gentle hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Alright, Alfred, I'll stay put." he said quietly, frowning slightly.

Alfred nodded, his hand going to his belt where his pistol (that he always had on him, no matter what) was resting, loaded and just waiting to be fired on an unsuspecting - or suspecting - victim.

"I'll go, and be back as soon as possible, alright?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary." a voice from the other side of the cabin stated.

Alfred slowly turned, his grip tightening on the gun considerably. A woman stood by the bathroom door, one hand on her gun holster (which she for some reason had) and the other gripping the side of the wall. She had blond hair, and looked just like a normal flight attendant. But immediately, they all noticed a malevolence about her, something that was easy once they'd learned to look for it.

Matthew, who was still sitting, watched the commotion with wide, frantic eyes, trying to come up with a solution to his predicament.

He couldn't find one. So he just stayed perfectly still, hand hovering over his chest as he tried to remember how fast he was able to pull the pistol out of his belt. Alfred had been right- it was handy to have on him, for emergencies.

The cabin was completely silent again, and even the engines seemed to be out of tune with Matthew's eardrums, which were also ringing. He was more than terrified- for once, it wasn't just him who was in danger. It was pretty much all the people he cared about, and then some. He didn't want _any_ of them to get hurt.

"Alfred-" Arthur mumbled as Alfred stepped forward, looking afraid for the other man's life.

"Who are you?" Alfred demanded, freezing as the woman whipped out her gun and pressed it against Alfred's chest, eyes narrowed in a silent warning to not move, let alone ask any other questions. He clenched his fists, eyes met with the woman's in a fearless glare.

"That's unimportant." she said vaguely, glaring. "The real question on this plane is who _you_ are, Alfred Jones."

Alfred frowned, and Matthew had to admit, he feigned cluelessness very well. Perhaps it was because he was genuinely oblivious most of the time. "...didn't you just say who I was? Alfred. I'm Alfred." he said quietly, looking down at the gun and beginning to get nervous as he realized that it was loaded and ready, his face darkening. "Could… you please take that gun off me?" he said, in a slightly fearful voice. Alfred wasn't the only nation that was afraid of death- many others were, because of how painful death was for nations. Because of the whole 'life flashing before your eyes' thing, it took forever for them to actually be dead. It was slightly slower, too, and was more painful if you had more hardships.

Matthew himself was one of the other ones, among him and a few others, mostly those whom he'd conversed with after the second world war. Netherlands, France… the list was a bit too long for his liking.

"You know exactly what I mean." The woman snarled. She apparently didn't realize how hard it was to get any given human to admit something they didn't want to, let alone the level of difficulty needed for a nation, province, micronation, or otherwise.

"I really don't." Alfred said stubbornly, his eyebrows knitting together in faux confusion. "I… please take the gun off me." he said, quieter this time. His voice was becoming darker, more dangerous, but also more afraid. Alfred was terrified.

Matthew stood up, his hand resting on the seat. He watched his brother with concern in his eyes, biting his lip with a calculating gaze behind his round glasses.

"Take that damn gun off his chest!" Arthur whisper-yelled, frowning deeply at the sight of Alfred's discomfort. He was a bit terrorized as well, rubbing the back of his hand as a sort of old habit. "Please." he added quickly in almost a squeak as the woman glared at him, his eyes going a bit wide. He certainly didn't want himself hurt along with Alfred!

"Don't make pleads when I have a gun on me, and you don't." she said with a slight scoff.

Arthur nearly laughed, but held it in by making his knees start to shake and falling into a sort of kneel, his face pale. Arthur was known for being a very good actor- or drama queen, No one could really tell anymore.

"S'il vous plaît, amour." Francis purred quietly, his arms behind his back in a non-threatening gesture. "We haven't done anything wrong…" he sounded weak, and his voice cracked into a higher octave, not like Francis at all. Perhaps maybe Arthur and Francis's rivalry was going a _bit_ too far.

Arthur glared at Francis when the woman wasn't looking, to which Francis responded by sticking his tongue out. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether the two were overgrown, mutated schoolchildren or not.

"Maybe you don't _think_ you've done anything wrong, but I _know-"_

Alfred suddenly tackled the woman, letting out a howl worthy of an amateur opera singer. There was a loud bang that echoed throughout the cabin of the airplane, and a screech from the American who was under the impression that he was already dead. The woman, who'd hit her head on the floor so hard that she'd passed out, didn't have any chance against the football-player build of Alfred F. Jones.

"Shit, Alfred-!"

"Oh, you _idiot!"_

The poor, poor flight attendant Julie looked petrified, as she'd come out of the cockpit to see the man on the ground. Meanwhile, the pilot had been killed, Matthew observed as he took one peek behind Julie. They'd waited until the girl's back was turned to do it.

Things seemed to be happening in slow motion. The plane jerked again, and Matthew heard a few of them scream (to be honest, the most likely candidate was Gilbert). He toppled back into a seat, gasping sharply at being thrown into an uncomfortable position.

Arthur was trying to get the bleeding Alfred (he'd been shot in the side, he later observed) off of the unconscious woman, his face grave and determined. But, of course, Arthur had always had minimal upper body strength, so there was really no way he'd be able to get the big lump off unless he had some help.

Francis had gone back to the cockpit. Oh, God, no. There was yelling from there. Peter was crying. What was going on? He couldn't… he couldn't…

"Matthew!"


	3. Chapter 2

**Obviously hinted PruCan here tbh. It's not intentional, and no, they will not become a thing later in the story, bugger off. The only ship I'm** _ **possibly**_ **doing is already in mind. So there, hah. There might be mentioned side ships (DenNor is the only one in mind so far, but if you have suggestions I MAY be able to take them), so stay tuned.**

 **Matthew woke up to his shoulder being shaken vigorously** , and he groaned quietly, opening his eyes deliriously. "Mh… guah…?" he mumbled, noticing that his glasses had been discarded and thrown off. This had been shown by the fact that all he could see was blurred white and blue, mixed with green spots dotting what he assumed had to be a landscape of some sorts. He used his ears, straining to understand, and when he was met with the crashing of waves against rock and sand, he realized that he was on a beach.

"Oh, thank God!"

He turned tiredly to see Gilbert, grinning slightly and obviously glad that the younger man had woken up. The only reason he could tell it was Gilbert was because of his voice and the pale skin, shrouded by a messy mop of snow white hair.

"Here's your glasses, Canadia." he mumbled the nickname teasingly, shoving something cold and metallic up the bridge of Matthew's nose carefully.

Everything went into focus, and the first thing Matthew tried to do was thank his friend for helping him. He opened his mouth to speak, and that's when he realized something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He couldn't speak. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't speak. A burning pain that he hadn't noticed before suddenly blossomed in his throat and he warbled out what he could muster for words, his hands starting to shake.

Gilbert smiled gravely and put a hand on his chest, "shh, Mattie, it's okay… c'mon, calm down, I don't want you getting another panic attack like you got on the plane…"

Slowly but surely, the Canadian man calmed down, but he pointed to his throat as if demanding to know what had happened. He couldn't speak, and… he couldn't speak…

Gilbert shrugged and brushed his thumb along Matthew's collarbone, sighing quietly. "I found you like this, with your throat like that. I bandaged you up as much as possible, used your shirt…" he paused to let that sink in, "I think a piece of shrapnel might've hit your throat." he said finally after a long silence that had threatened the other man's patience.

Matthew was shaking more as he struggled to sit up, only to be held down again by his hand. He was panicking again, realizing the pain and coming to the conclusion that it hurt his throat even to breathe. He could only shake and take small breaths, watching Gilbert keep him still until he struggled no more from utter exhaustion.

He knew he'd be able to speak again, in a matter of time. But it scared him, especially being someone that was easily overlooked. He just shivered and looked down, his head spinning and his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tried to regain himself.

"Hey, Mattie, I'm gonna go get something for shelter. You still have that gun on you?"

It only took a moment for Matthew to nod once to Gilbert for him to grin, ruffle his hair gently, and leave. The man had always been motherly, so it didn't surprise Matthew that he was being motherly to him, of all people. He gripped his pistol gingerly, staring out into the night with determined eyes.

Gilbert wasn't back yet.

That was all that rang through his mind three hours later, his stomach grumbling for food even though he'd eaten not long ago and his eyes droopy with exhaustion, despite his numerous hours of sleep. But he couldn't sleep. He had to stay away to protect himself, to help Gilbert if he was hurt-

No.

Gilbert was fine. He was completely fine, and he didn't need Matthew to help him. He was Prussian, for God's sake! He didn't need _help!_

He shook his head slightly and grimaced at his own thoughts. He shouldn't be a pessimist at a time like this, he reminded himself.

Then he heard shouting and he recoiled, closing his eyes for split second and taking a deep, calming breath that hurt his throat bad enough that he had to restrain from coughing. He had realized at this point that his clothes were soaked through- Gilbert might have pulled him out of the water, or the tide had gone down from when Gilbert had found him. He had started a shiver a while ago, but he paid no heed, keeping his position, his eyes half-closed in a sort of fear that enveloped him whole and threatened to send him into a panic attack like the one on the plane he vaguely remembered.

The shouting got louder and his eyes shot wide open, his hands shaking as he realized that he couldn't fall asleep, he couldn't let anything natural take him over. The strong Canadian wouldn't let that happen. He'd fight to the end, and would refuse to give up until he didn't have any fight left.

"Alfred! Francis! Gilbert! Good God, where are you people?!"

Was that…

Matthew struggled to rasp out his sort-of brother's name, his shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to stand. He gasped quietly, a small hitching sound that was easily overlooked by Arthur from the many chirps of birds and the roar of the ocean not far from him.

It was useless. He wouldn't hear him. He wouldn't see him. Completely, utterly hopeless. What was he to do? Nothing. He had to sit there helplessly and wait, wait as Arthur slowly left the area without a second thought.

The shuffling of his feet was heard as he walked through the dense forest, and Arthur sighed, pressing a finger to his temple and leaning against the trunk of a tree. He didn't know how long he'd been waking, but it had surely been a very, very long time. His legs, which were burning from how long he'd been walking (the man was out of shape, he needed to get back into it, and soon), were nearly dragging along the forest floor, and his voice was raw from how much he'd been yelling. There was already a sinking feeling in his stomach, and he felt sick.

He slid down to sit on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest and resting his elbows on his knees. He groaned, running a hand through his sweat-filled hair. This was an unpleasant experience, to say the least.

"Mph…" Arthur struggled to make sound, his head spinning. He'd call out one last time…

No. He'd save his voice, and make a shelter. It'd be easy, he told himself, just like the last time he'd made one… in the late 1940's.

He wasn't good at remembering, but he figured he could wing it.

So Arthur stood up and brushed himself off, ignoring the aching pains and the exhaustion. He started walking again, searching high and low for a place to stay. And about half an hour later (not that he would be able to tell the time), he found it.

A sizeable wall of rock with a large chunk lost, a large open area in store for at least seven Arthurs to hole up in. It was relatively clean, got light easily, and was near what appeared to be a river (which he prayed was freshwater, though he knew it probably wasn't).

"Perfect." he mumbled, starting to trudge towards it with new hope.

This hope was dashed as soon as he stepped near it, his foot hooking onto a branch most painfully and he flopped to the ground, rather like a painfully disabled dog. He certainly yelled out like one too, and screaming obscenities in what had to be at least seven different languages.

It seemed to go in slow motion, but afterwards he couldn't even remember when he'd fallen, only the blinding pain up his leg and palms when he hit the root-littered ground.

"Goddamn it all…" he hissed, picking his face up from where it had hit the dirt. He rolled onto his back, looking at his palms tiredly and checking for damages. Nothing but a few scrapes, he'd be fine.

He hoisted himself up and almost fell over again, his face going a deathly pale that wouldn't have been remotely considered healthy, in any sense of the word.

He was screwed. He crawled towards the cave opening with as much dignity he could (which wasn't much) and scrambled into a sitting position, leaning forward and looking down at his leg. Then he almost fainted.

His foot was bent at an awkward angle, and God, it hurt so much. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, looking around and thankfully finding a nice piece of dry wood. He ripped his pant leg up to the knee and grimaced at the sight of a pink tinge to his skin, all along his ankle. It would start swelling soon, and he had to do something before that happened.

Arthur groaned and inspected it for a moment. It was far enough up that he wouldn't have to keep his shoe on the reduce swelling… besides, his shoe didn't cover it anyways. So the black slacks he had come off, though he kept the socks on. He began making a makeshift splint, wincing in pain every now and then. A few hours (it took longer than expected- his hands were shaky and his motions were slowed because of pain) later, he had a sort-of support for his leg, and was utterly exhausted. He gripped his own hair tightly, taking a deep, shaky breath. "Lord…" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head and leaning against the cave wall. His ankle would be fine within a matter of days, but for now, it was causing him too much pain to bear.

He decided quickly that he would have to do something, and then thought first that he would evaluate the situation. He dug around in his pockets to see what he could salvage, and found that He had a few coins, a wad of money, his cell (the screen was cracked down the middle, and it wouldn't turn on), and his wallet, which held a few pictures, two credit cards, his ID, and some more money. He put all of the rest of the money in his wallet, muttering ferociously to himself. Not much, not anything remotely useful. The last thing that he thought before drifting off into uncomfortable, pained induce sleep was this:

"Where are the others?"

The first thing Francis realized when he woke up was that he was in pain. His whole body felt as if it was on fire, and _God_ was he drained. He couldn't open his eyes for a long moment as the throbbing faded away, replaced by a still severe but less disabling dull pain. "Ugh…" he managed to open his eyes, and found that he was lying among the wreckage of a plane; it was a miracle that he hadn't been hit by debris more than the dozens of small specks of metal embedded into his arms and legs.

"France! France!"

Suddenly a small boy (which Francis recognized five seconds later as Peter) was shaking him, trying to get him to sit up, or at least respond to him. He looked scared out of his wits.

"Peter-" Francis managed, struggling to sit up, ignoring the protest of his back and arms as he supported himself. "Calm down, darling…" he said, trying desperately to get the younger of the two to relax.

"B-But where's Iggy? And America?" he demanded, tears filling his eyes. He shook Francis some more, which forced Francis to hold Peter's arms down and examine him. He'd hit his head, it'd started to bleed… and it was hard for the boy to breathe, which was evident in the insistent panting and the tightness of his chest; if this was a symptom of panic or an injury, Francis wasn't sure.

"I'm sure they're alright, Peter." he said gently, although he was struggling to reassure him, "Completely fine."

Peter made a sound of protest but Francis shook his head, standing up unsteadily, legs shaking as he managed to brace himself against a nearby tree. "How about we just still together and find a place to stay, hm?"

Peter nodded slightly, seemingly reassured, but Francis knew that both of them had that knot of worry in their stomachs, a slightly nauseating feeling that wouldn't go away until curiosity had been sated. So many problems spun in their heads as they trekked along the sidewalk, their heads held high as they tried to keep their panic from showing.

Where were they? Who were those people on the plane?

Where were the others?

-END CH 2-


End file.
